


Wordplay

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 22:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12094803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'i was wondering if i could request a fluffy McLennon fic where Paul is sick and John tries to take care of him but doesn't really know how to.'Ofc! Sick Paulie is cute Paulie.





	Wordplay

Paul sneezed pathetically, and John stared at him.

“I’ve not grown another head, have I?” the younger man groaned, and John bit his lip. “Oh eyy, come on…”

“Yer all gross and snotty. Are you ill, lad?” John asked, and Paul looked at him with flat, hazel eyes.

“No. It’s all for the aesthetic, like.” He sneezed again. “Of course I am, you twat.” John nodded. “What are yeh standing there for, like?” John exhaled.

“Well… do yeh need anythin’?”

“…have you never been ill, Johnny?” Paul coughed weakly; he looked very gamine, John had to say, with his pink-flushed cheeks. “Just… you know. Whatever…” He rolled over, and John bit his lip.

“Yeh, but…” He crawled under the covers and curled up to Paul. “What do yeh need?” His panicked tone finally clued Paul in, and he rolled over, face to face with his boyfriend. “I just… like… Mum always looked after me, then, like… Mimi…”

“Okay. Like… if it was you, lad, what would you want?”

“…cuppa.” Paul paused, and then smiled, kissing John’s nose. “Ah, don’t snot on me, that’s grody, that is…” Paul grinned devilishly, and before John knew it he had launched himself onto him, kissing every available inch of John’s face. “ _Ah gerroff me!_ ”

“There ya go. Now, yer gonna get sick, Johnny, and when yeh do, like, I want yeh to think about what ya want me to be doing fer you, alright?” he said sweetly, and fire burned like hot coals in John’s eyes for a moment. “And get that face off yeh, like.”

John jumped up, and marched out of the room, but the light never left his eyes, and as Paul settled down to sleep, he felt only a flicker of worry. He really must’ve been ill.

* * *

Paul opened his eyes, and John was standing there, looking positively adorable. Something was very wrong – John looked like a mischievous schoolboy, mischievous being the operative word.

“Here yeh go, Paulie, light of my life. I rang Mimi, got her chicken soup recipe.” He set the bowl down, and Paul looked at it suspiciously. It smelled beautiful. “And I made yeh a brew as well. Two sugars, some whiskey in it too, lad, so it should be top for yer throat, like.” Paul looked at the tea suspiciously as well. “Can’t have our crooner with ‘is voice out of order, like.”

“What’s goin’ on, Johnny?”

“I want yeh better. Look, that’s proper soup that is. I  _made_  that. The chicken’s cooked all the way through an’ all.” John grinned. “But before yeh drink it…” He kissed Paul, hand sliding under his stripy pyjama top, and Paul’s eyes widened as John pushed him back onto the bed.

“Is this standard medical practise?” he asked weakly, and John smirked.

“Lie back, Paulie. You don’t have to do anything…” That light was in his eyes again, and Paul’s brow furrowed before he sat up.

“An’ what’s the c-c-…” He stopped to cough, John leaning away, and then cleared his throat. “The catch?”

“…well. When I get sick, now yeh’ve smooched me, yeh rotten bastard… you’ve gotta do…  _everything_  I’ve done fer you.” Paul had a moment to realise that playing word games with John had been a terrible idea, and then John’s hand was on his stomach, and he sighed. Well… he wasn’t going to argue.

“Alright. But you better get fish an’ chips for tea after. None of this ‘cooking yerself’ malarkey,” he said, and John grinned.

“Oh, alright. If I have to.”


End file.
